


Mechanic

by reign (araxi)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Multi, Plus-Sized Reader, Reader-Insert, Romance, Smut TBA, and bc mechanics is fun, plus sized reader, why?? bc i wanted a nonathletic reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 21:11:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11343258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araxi/pseuds/reign
Summary: “What if I just started calling you ‘one arm McCree’?” You asked, giggling a little at your terrible joke.McCree snorted, and replied in an only slightly upset tone, “You better not.”“Oh, c’mon, one arm!”McCree visibly grimaced, “oh, dear god.”





	Mechanic

You joined Overwatch accidentally. Maybe not by accident, per se, but you hadn’t exactly been recruited; you had been working with Torbjörn when the recall happened. He asked you to come, and you weren’t one to pass up an opportunity to do something good. And so, you became the Overwatch Mechanic (tm).

Torbjörn’s presence in the shop was sporadic because of his mission heavy schedule, and since you didn’t go on missions and had worked under the man himself, it seemed like the best fit for you to be the full-time mechanic. You didn’t mind it, really, not being out on the field. You didn’t want to, and you weren’t prepared to. All new recruits had to go through extensive training with Soldier: 76. And while you liked the old grump, you were not brave enough to go through training with him.

Instead, you attended to all the mechanical things: the weapons, the mechs (well, one mech), the weirdly high number electronic body parts, the _actual_ omnics. Zenyatta was the first you had ever met. Growing up in a strictly no-omnic household only fueled your curiosity for what was under the hood - mechanically speaking. He was very kind about it, though, teaching you all the inner workings of himself and all of the omnic’s like him.

Basically, you repaired shit, and you did it well.

Which was why you weren’t surprised Jesse McCree came to you to get his arm fixed. Despite the fact that Angela and Winston and Torbjörn made the arm, you were mechanic, and you were the one who could fix it best. Besides, they were all busy with their own stuff.

“Hello, darlin’,” Jesse said, with that sweet southern drawl of his. You would never tell him, but you loved the way he used his words, smooth like honey and _so_ clever. He never failed to make you blush.

“Hello, McCree,” you replied, not even looking up from your work on Pharah’s helmet. In the last op, it had gotten damaged and she had asked you to look over it. And you couldn’t say no to her, especially with her kind face and her beautiful eyes.

“I’m havin’ a problem with my arm,” he said, “It keeps goin’ off, doin’ weird things.”

You paused for a moment, before turning around to look at McCree’s problem arm, “Like what?”

“It jus’ started shakin’ durin’ breakfast,” he supplied, “Like it was a goddamn vibrator or somethin’. I was walkin’ in the hall, an’ it started flailin’ e’rywhere. I rebooted it both times but I reckon somethin’ must be off.”

You nodded at each example, trying to think of what could be at fault, “Did it get damaged last mission?”

He shrugged, “Don’t think so.”

You nodded again, before moving to his arm, “May I?”

When he gave you affirmation, you started in, examining it while it was still attached to him. Nothing was wrong with the outside, that was for sure. There were no chips, or scratches, or dull spots. It was almost perfect. The only thing that made sense was a problem with the motor functions matrix, which meant that you would have to hook it up to your computer and sift through the matrix.

Which could take days, if you did it manually.

Of course, you could always have the computer look for the problem automatically, but even that would take six hours at the minimum.

“Okay, McCree. I’m going to have to plug in your arm. Which means I’m going to have to take it off. I’m going to have my computer sift through the motor functions matrix, try to find what’s wrong, but that’s going to take, like, six hours, okay?”

He smiled that charming smile of his, “O’ course, darlin’. Be sure to call me once it’s done.”

You helped him take off his arm, holding his bicep as you unlocked and then slid off his arm (you could almost swear he was flexing while you were doing so, and knowing McCree, he probably was).

“What if I just started calling you ‘one arm McCree’?” You asked, giggling a little at your terrible joke.

McCree snorted, and replied in an only slightly upset tone, “You better not.”

“Oh, c’mon, one arm!”

McCree visibly grimaced, “oh, dear god.”

You laugh, your whole body shaking and a smile across your entire face, “I guess I could let it go, High Noon.”

McCree shook his head as he turned around, “What have I gotten myself into?”

He waved his hat as he left, still muttering under his breath. You laughed, watching him leave. What did the old poets say? “ _I hate to see him go, but I love to watch him leave_ ”?

Once you had plugged in McCree’s arm, and set up your programs to sift through the data. You went back to what you were doing before. But Pharah’s helmet was a simple fix, there was only some loose wiring that was causing the targeting to be off. After you had finished doing that, though, there wasn’t much else to do. All of the guns, and machines, and chronal accelerators that Winston and Torbjorn had designed were top notch, and required little maintenance.

McCree’s arm was another story. He was on a ruining streak, constantly messing up something with his arm.

The problem was, however, that the motor functions matrix was a long, _long_ code and it took everything in you to not fall asleep watching your computer compare the information to that of the original matrix. However, everything in you was not much, and you were very bad at staying awake when there was nothing to do.

Finding the problem with McCree’s arm took seven hours, thirteen minutes and twenty two seconds. At least, that was what your computer said when the blaring alarm went off, and woke you from your unintentional nap.

The clock on your computer said that it was 10:53. You traditionally got out of your shop at 8, but, despite the fact that you were exhausted, you didn’t want to leave McCree’s arm unfixed overnight. Half because you didn’t like to leave your work undone, and half because you were worried that the arm would twitch while you were gone and ruin your entire shop. Logically, you knew that wouldn’t happen, but you could never be sure.

“Computer, what’s the problem?”

Your computer responded in it’s almost human voice, “Please, call me Athena.”

You sighed, not in annoyance at Athena, but at yourself for forgetting once again. Before you had moved to Overwatch, you had coded your own AI, a simple one, with the name _computer_ so as not to confuse yourself, “I apologize, Athena. What’s wrong with McCree’s arm?”

“It seems as though someone inserted a virus into his arm. There is nothing else in the code but what accessed his motor functions matrix. Seems like a prank.”

You smiled, thankful, “Athena, would you please open up the problem spot?”

“Of course,” she did so, showing you said problem spot. You laughed, when you saw what the problem was; someone had added a few lines of code that from time to time, would set McCree’s arm off.

Whoever did that knew what they were doing. And had a sense of humor.

* * *

“McCree has a crush on you,” Hana said casually.

The two of you were sitting in her room watching old movies and eating whatever snacks the two of you had snuck away with. It was a tradition for the two of you, watching old movies on Thursday nights. Sometimes others would join in - Genji or Mei or Satya or Lena - but you and Hana were a constant.

You blushed, and grabbed another Oreo, “I’m sure he does.” Your voice was laced with sarcasm.

She rolled her eyes, “He does. Why do you think he keeps going to you for ‘help’ with his arm?”

“Because he doesn’t take good care of it,” you replied, your voice taking on a ‘duh’ tone,“He doesn’t like me, Hana. Why would he?”

She scoffed, “You’re hot, and funny, and smart, and friendly.”

“I -” you were about to deny the statement, but the look Hana gave you was scathing, “look, even if that were true, that doesn’t mean he likes me, Hana.” The whole situation had you confused, in what world would Jesse McCree like you, the mechanic. Even thinking the word tastes bitter, reminding you of all the missed opportunities because of your profession. All the dates you missed because you were so focused on making something perfect that you lost track of time, all the people who didn’t think that someone who can make their own pulse rifle can’t hold up a simple conversation.

Hana scoffed, pulling the case of Oreo’s off of your lap and onto her own, “Yeah, Y/N, it does. He never shuts up about you or your ass. _Did you see Y/N today? Damn, does Y/N look good in those pants! Do you know what hours Y/N is in today?_ ” Her impression of McCree was subpar, but the point got across.

“He talks about me?”

She laughed, “That’s all he does. Y/N this, Y/N that! It’s like he has no life outside of loving you.”

“Loving me?” The movie was long forgotten, as you moved so that you were half on her chair and half on your own, “he loves me? Wha - What the fuck?”

Hana laughed, “I’m surprised you didn’t notice. He goes to get his arm fixed all the time. He’s lik ninety percent of your work! It’s clear to the rest of us. Hell, even 76 notices. The other day, we were watching the two of you talking and he said, ‘when is McCree gonna get the balls to ask them out?’ and then I said, ‘what makes you think balls is what makes someone confident? why not tits?’ and then there was this whole argument about gender and how toxic masculinity is affecting our speech patterns, and 76 made some good points about how masculine things are considered good and confident and aggressive, while female things are considered evil and dainty and calm. It’s interesting that even aggression is considered good when it’s connected to a masculinity. In the end, we agreed that instead of using balls or tits, we were just going to say confidence.”

“What?” You had lost yourself around “toxic masculinity”.

Hana shrugged, “Basically, McCree is kind of in love with you, everyone knows except you, and he will never have the confidence to ask you out on a serious date.”

“ _Huh_.”

* * *

“Hey, McCree,” you said, once he had walked into your office.

He smiled in response, before pointing at the arm with the other one, “didja fix it?”

“Yeah,” you told him, unplugging it and taking it off your workbench, “it seemed like it was just a practical joke, it was only a line of code that was added.”

McCree laughed, almost nervously, “must’ve been someone real smart.”

“Yeah,” you double checked the arm, making sure all the components were in place, “you ready to get your arm back?”

He smiled, stretching his arm out, “‘Course I’m ready.””

You helped slide McCree’s arm back into place. You ran a hand over the scarred flesh that lined his elbow, where his arm ended. He shivered. It was subtle, but you could feel it, the slight shake of his strong body against yours.

“Darlin’,” he said, moving his body closer to yours, his arms - mechanical and flesh - wrapping around you, “ya’ keep doin’ that, and I might not stop you.”

You laughed, pulling away, “You must say that to everyone.”

He didn’t laugh, his face contorting into something akin to confusion.

“Okay so your arm is all fixed up,” you told him, taking a step back, “someone messed with the code. Nothing bad, just a small prank.”

He chuckled, and whispered something under his breath. He was too far away for you to hear what he said, but you got the impression that there was something you didn’t know - like an inside joke you weren't a part of. You weren’t sure if you wanted to be a part of it yet.

He stood there for a moment, before moving closer to you. You felt the need to take another step back, not knowing what he was planning, but decided against it. You didn’t get the feeling that there was anything sinister about his actions, and your gut had never led you astray. McCree wasn't the kind of man to do something that you would be incredibly uncomfortable with.

“You do realize you’re free to leave, right Jesse?”

He sighed at your use of his first name, almost as if it were a confession of something on your part.

“Say my name again, darlin’,” he said, taking another step closer, “jus’ like that.”

He was in your personal space, one hand resting to the left of you, on the workshop counter; the other in his back pocket, twitching slightly every so often, as if there was something he needed to touch.

He was so close to you, and he seemed so content - his face was slack, all the worries that normally clouded his face gone.

“ _Jesse_.”

It was a whisper.

He shuddered, and the hand that twitched - the one in his back pocket - reached out and touched your hip. It was featherlight, he knew that you hadn’t consented to any of this just yet, but took your compliance as a good sign. Your hand reached up, cupped his cheek. He nuzzed into it, his eyes fluttering shut.

Jesse opened his mouth, as if about to say soething to you, but abrubtly closed his mouth and opened his eyes. And instead of saying something in his sweet drawl - calling you darlin’ maybe -  he stepped away.

“Thanks,” he wouldn’t look at you, and you didn’t know why.

“Jesse?”

He still wouldn’t look in your eyes - instead, he took a step back and left your workshop.

You didn’t know why you were so disappointed when he left.

* * *

McCree didn’t show up at your workshop anymore. You should have handed it to Hana for noticing, because Jesse McCree was about half of your workload. Without him walking in every five seconds with another glitch or another scratch or another _something_ , you had nothing to do.

It was absolutely terrible. Not just because of the absence of things to do, but the absence of the faux cowboy.

You had never realized before, but the man was always around. He was always cracking jokes, or getting you snacks, or coming into your workshop with something that desperately needed fixing, or just to be with you. You never missed him before. There was never an opportunity to.

There was nothing but opportunities now, and he was all you could think about. The way his hand ghosted over your waist, the way he looked at you, the way he said your name; you couldn’t stop replaying it over and over until you had picked apart every detail of the encounter and then you replayed it again.

You were slowly going insane, thinking about Jesse McCree.

Getting out your phone, you texted Hana a quick message containing, ‘ _911 wrkshp asap_ ’ and three alarm emoji’s. Panic mode was on, and you were feeling it.

All in all, there was really only one big question on your mind, the one you needed Hana to answer:

_Why did you care so much?_

The only thing that came to your mind was the fact that you were friends and you missed him, but even you weren’t that oblivious; half of your thoughts were about him doing more than _friendly_ things with you.

But even leaving the case there - attraction and nothing more - seemed wrong. There was so much more to the situation, the two of you were friends, and friends didn’t imagine the other the way you imagined him.

And you couldn’t even get into the self doubt section, knowing that going through that would be a lot harder.

“911, what’s going on?”

Hana walked in the workshop to find you on the floor, half covered in grease, and eating a box of cookies.

“Oh dear god, he got you good.”

You grunted as she sat down next to you, offering her a cookie. She declined, before resting her head on your shoulder, “It would have been fine if you had left it, Hana.”

She tilted her head up, just a smidge, enough for you to see the sad smile she gave you, “I couldn’t do that to him, mechie.” A small smile crossed your face at the nickname she had given you, in reference to your job. She knew it was your favorite of all the ones she had given to you (‘chanic, the mechanic, mechie. Funnily enough, most of them were plays on your job title).

You sighed, rubbing your forehead with the balls of your hands, “I know you couldn’t, Han.”

“What happened anyways? Did he just want a one time thing or -”

You laughed, and it was almost bitter, “That’s the thing, Hana, nothing happened. He seemed like he was gonna kiss me - he looked like he was gonna kiss me - and then, nothing. He left. And he hasn’t come back since. It’s like I scared him off. And now, I don’t know what to do because half of my work is gone and McCree is avoiding me and I miss him so so much, god Hana, why do I miss him so much?”

Hana sighed, her head still on your shoulder, “you’re in love with the bastard.”

You weren’t sure how to respond, a part of you wanted to dispute it, to tell her all the reasons you weren’t in love with him (you couldn’t think of any but you were sure that there were some). But you knew, you knew what this was, “fuck, I wish I wasn’t.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re right,” you said, your voice small, “I don’t.”

* * *

“Hey’a.”

You turned around so quickly you almost got whiplash. Jessie was standing in front of you, hands in his pockets, a sheepish look on his face.

“Wha - what - what are you doing here?” You didn’t intend to stutter out the first word, but seeing him in front of you, after two weeks of silence, was nothing short of surprising.

He chuckled, “I think I broke something.”

You gave him a tight smile, before ushering him over to a seat to examine his arm.

“It looks fine,” you said, trying to make sure the inspection was thorough, “what have you noticed?”

He looked at you through hooded eyes, his expression almost genuine, “I don’t think it’s my arm.”

“Why did you come to me, then?”

His human arm cradled your face, “Because I love you.”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” your voice was laced with sarcasm as you pulled away from him.

“I’m not kiddin’ darlin,” his face was growing more stern by the second, and you fought the urge to laugh in his face.

“Are you fucking with me, McCree?” you asked, your voice wild, and your hands flailing, “Because if you’re not I will punch you in the dick. You know why, hillbilly?”

He shook his head, something akin to fear in his eyes.

“Because you’re an asshole. You’re a fake, asshole cowboy who doesn’t know how to talk to someone about his feelings like a goddamned adult! And then, when an opportunity shows itself, you turn on your heel and run like a fucking coward! You have no balls, Jesse McCree, and you don’t get to come to me after ignoring me for a month and expect me to take you back into my arms like an emotionless robot!”

You took a breath, almost feeling as though you had just ran a marathon. Jesse sat there, stunned.

“I loved you too, you know,” you said, less angry and more dissappointed, “and if you had acted like an actual adult, things could’ve been different.”

Jesse didn’t see the tears in your eyes as you left.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah there r going to be 2 more chapters; one with a dfab smut and one with an dmab smut :)


End file.
